2007+Poetry

by Steve Maack
 * Ode on a Broken-Winged Butterfly**

Itself a simile for the delicate and vulnerable pitiably debilitated, the injury only accentuates the beauty not lost but marred, the future altered but not eradicated.

All that remains is to carry on and live, stationary but not motionless, admired but neither content nor free.

Renee Kohlhagen July 13, 2007
 * Mother’s Comfort**

Late at night, Standing, Watching, Her tiny body has rested. Silently, Calmly, I place my hand upon her chest. Rising, Descending, Feeling each and every breath. Gently, Peacefully, Adrift in her dreams. Pausing, Listening, Carefully slipping away to let her be.


 * ANDREW: Put this poem into two seperate columns (left & right aligned)**

Renee Kohlhagen
 * Pre-Teen**

(left)Growing up so fast, (left)Do you think he has much more to grow? (right)Video games are a blast, (right)Why don’t grown-ups think so? (left)So many memories of the past, (left)Where did the time go? (right)Middle school at last, (right)How much more do I need to know?

(left)That all important soccer game, (left)Will it distract him this year? (right)I’ll make it in the hall of fame, (right)Is it failure I fear? (left)In front of his friends he will find me lame, (left)Can I still pull him close to hold him dear? (right)My parents now I will start to blame, (right)Why can’t I have the latest gear?

R. Kohlhagen
 * Questions for My Daughter**

Will she delight in happiness? After the toys have aged And the objects of her childhood are packed away.

Will she drown in remorse? From a lack of her own inhibitions Or from a decision made too soon.

Will she rage in the throws of anger? So passionate in her convictions that her voice screams Demanding to be heard.

Will she cower in fear? From the darkness Or in the knowledge she can not comprehend.

Will she wallow in hatred? Bound by the rules of society, That will not let her breathe.

Will she know the depths of love? With Passion coiled so tight That no force can unravel it.

Will she experience life? Through the emotional entanglements That drive us to reach our final destination.

Directors Renee S. Kohlhagen

A shepherd often alone, Directing his herd, Watching their movement, Anticipating their decisions, Keeping them together, Keeping them safe, Concerned about the terrain that lie ahead, Wondering into the open together, Directing them back, when they go astray.

A teacher often alone, Directing his class, Watching their movement, Anticipating their decisions, Keeping them together, Keeping them safe, Concerned about the terrain that lie ahead, Wondering into the open together, Directing them back, when they go astray.

An unspoken trust, A journey through the unknown, A promise to a greater end

(Andrew please center this poem)

Laughter By T. Rose

Laughter?

I hear laughter!

From where does it come?

It drifts down the hall…

Giggling,

Tee-heeing,

Guffawing,

Hee-hawing,

Good ‘ol laughter!

I begin to snicker…

Then a chuckle…

Now an explosion…

Laugh, laugh,

LAUGHTER!

Who will catch it next?

"To My Husband..." by Wendy Graber

(ANDREW: PLEASE INDENT THE FOLLOWING LINES: 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11, 13, 15, 18, 20, 21, 22)

Blue eyes Crystal pools that have aged along with mine. Once smooth skin Now mature and peppered with afternoon shadows. A mind so bold Amazes me with knowledge that pierces my heart. A love so complete and full, reserved only for me. Who am I to deserve this package? Why am I the one he chose? Questions unanswered; But unknown motives I cherish. Without him I would perish in my own existence, for he is the breath and being of my soul.

Emily Koch SCKWP 2007

Putting away laundry in the boys room

Stinky, messy Books clinging to the shelves Strewn toys on the floor A tangle of sheets Stuffed animals And children’s sleep Overfull closet To many shirts Outgrown and taking up room A white dresser A brown dresser Rehabbed by overzealous Grandparents Dust Stuff Not enough time to pick up toys And Put away Laundry


 * 5th grade** (PLEASE CENTER TITLE AND ENTIRE POEM. PLEASE PUT MY NAME ON THE BOTTOM ON THE RIGHT. I THINK i GOOFED AND UNDERLINED ALL OF THE REST OF THIS FILE. WOULD YOU PLEASE FIX IT? tHANKS.)

Top of the heap Exciting new year Leaders Abundant Knowledge Thoughtful Caring Still playing Laughing Excited Nervous Almost finished Halfway done

You are top of the heap in the school. Looking forward to an exciting new year You are the leaders of our school With abundantly more knowledge than many of the lower grades You are the thoughtful ones That must care for the littler ones You are still playing And laughing Excited about what is and Nervous about what is to come You are almost finished with elementary And halfway done with public school. 5th grade

by Alexa Harrelson

My favorite smoke. Emily Koch I step out the front door for a smoke It is late in my little burg and No one is moving No cars on my busy street No neighbors moving around.

This is my favorite cigarette of the day After the children are asleep And my husband is comfortably snoring I step into the night air And breathe deeply

I do not smoke enough to destroy my Sense of taste and smell and Once the nasty cancer stick is finished I pause.

My garden has grown well this year The extra rain and the right fertilizer Have created a beautiful place Filled with the smell of deep summer

The lantana reeks of cat pee My friend the gardener claims But mixed with the Russian sage, the roses And the geraniums it becomes part of the Calliope of smells on a quiet summer night

Further in the summer night I smell The leftover stench of a barbeque And the rot of leaves with to much moisture And not enough time to dry The freshly cut lawn of my messy neighbor

I walk back down the drive to my front door Back to the comfort of conditioned air And happy children. Lingering in the air Incense, cooking smells and recent baths

Tomorrow the night will be different Maybe more humid maybe less The smells of the night Molding themselves to fit the Deep summer

by Steve Maack
 * Outside In**

If it were not me, If I were outside looking in at us, I’d be annoyed [indent] by the cloying voices [indent] by the bobbling heads [indent] by the hands looking for certainty and comfort [indent] by enfolding arms, grasping, searching. ..

But I cannot stand outside us. I let go of my staid, serious self, and it’s clear: she only wants inside, to have back the love she shares so freely.

I drop all pretense, all preoccupation, all predilection toward cold exteriority, and I hold her tight, revel in her closeness, her warmth. Only then might I attempt to match the breadth of her love.

Someday, one of us won’t be there to hold the other. I should let her inside now while our arms still notch together perfectly like two pieces of a broken toy just before it’s glued together again.

And I say a quick prayer for a catastrophe that takes us together because I cannot endure the thought of either of us being alone, one outside the other again.

Ekphrasis: “Café Terrace at Night” by Steve Maack

Café tables wait as settings for passionate dramas yet to unfold, and on each table sit folded menus, unproduced scripts awaiting a cast of characters, with napkins knives and forks for props and wine for the courage to perform, ready to play for the cobblestones and the stars and the expectant night air.

“Image of a Modern World”
 * by Wendy Graber**
 * (ANDREW: PLEASE INDENT THE FOLLOWING LINES ONE TIME: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 16, 17, 18, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25. INDENT THE LAST LINE TWO TIMES!!!!!)**

Is it the same in Italy or Africa as it is in North America? The Voodoo we call The Media with the perils of history at our faces and ears.

Oscar Academy and outbreaks inside the miracle of talk T.V. Hunting for the new and latest advanced and improved.

The philosophy of this fast-paced art is in the living room classroom bus station.

Who are we to judge The power of money that is like cancer eating away at Pride. In a world of lost and found who knows what is real. Language is through the changing eyes of a Kodak Moment.

by Wendy Graber**
 * “Summer Splendor”

Alas, Adonis! Greek features Sculpted by the Masters. Perfectly formed jaw, Tilted up towards the mid-day sun. Emerald eyes lie hidden Beneath closed lids. Sun-kissed cheeks A bronze god at rest Strong biceps peek from beneath The grey drapes That house his beautiful body. David! It is he himself who inspired Michaelangelo. Legs thrust casually in front Of a resting torso. What lies behind those sleeping eyes? What memories keep him so tranquil, Or what fantasies await? No matter which, They will one day include me And the remnants of this moment.


 * “Winter Moonlight”**
 * by Wendy Graber**

(ANDREW: PLEASE INDENT THE FOLLOWING LINES: 1, 5, 9, AND 13) Seven shades of grey, shimmering in the citron glow of a full moon against a hazy sky peppered with stardust. Dark branches, bare of life, reach upwards as if to touch the night air and send ripples of moonlight through the fog. Translucent icicles drip from the long arms, basking in the beams of the moon, content to share the spotlight. The ground, blanketed with layers of diamond-flaked snow, sleeps and waits in solitude.

//Inspired by Charles E. Burchfield’s 1951 watercolor of the same name.//


 * “Rise of the Prism”**
 * by Wendy Graber**

(ANDREW: PLEASE INDENT THE FOLLOWING LINES: 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15, 16, AND 20.) Reds Golds Purples Hues blend in a violent spray Capturing one color, then another, Of the world about to Awaken below. Green Brown Orange Lines distorted, figures once named Now unrecognizable in the rays From above. Yellow-white Orb Stretching out to meet the clouds, The atmosphere, the earth beneath. Ready to accept the sacrifice Placed before him. Another day begins.

//Inspired by the 1919 Charles Demuth graphite on paper of the same name.//


 * “Sounds of a Neighborhood”**
 * by Wendy Graber**

(ANDREW: PLEASE INDENT EACH LINE THAT DOES **NOT** START WITH A CAPITAL LETTER!)

Birds chirping mismatched melodies Breeze rustling the leaves anxious to join the morning song. Limbs, tapping one another bickering for their space in the sun. Steady strides of a runner’s shoes keep beat on the concrete path. An engine starts, rumbles, adding crescendo to the piece then faintly drifting away. Staccato snaps of a roofer’s tools; a consistent meter. Sprinkler water gurgles down the gutter finding refuge from the midmorning sun. In the distance the laughter of children embracing a new day. This is the music of my neighborhood.

by Wendy Graber**
 * "Sitting on a Riverbank Without Shoes"

Why do the stars seem to keep their place In the heavens? Night after night after night They shine, Never losing their brightness. How many times can Haley cross our paths? Year after year after year He continues Without wavering, without thinking, perhaps, Without even knowing.

A big toe touches the water’s edge And sends the stars rippling away. Patterns, patterns of circles, All the same Yet each one different. Cold. Wet. Toes curl to find warmth where There is none Against a bare foot.

“Don’t go out without your shoes or you’ll catch your death.” Long, pointed, Max Factor Really Red Fingernail Shaking, Back and forth, Up and down, Attached to one called Mother. The other foot finds the water and Sinks To the ankle, Toes searching The murky mud underneath.

What did Neil think when he looked back Upon the blue and white swirls below? Could he see my stars In their circled patterns Winking up at him? Lapping, slapping Against dainty jagged rocks. Breeze pushes the stars This way and that.

Shakespeare sits to the left Joyce is on the right. “What is Beetle Mania, anyway?” How do you explain the Unexplainable When the answers don’t really matter? Slosh. Lap. Swirl. Do they mind being examined, Scrutinized, Loved, Hated? Do they care? The stars in the sky or Stars in the water. Or stars in book or In our minds.

Oh, Material Girl! Don’t worry, be happy. There is nothing rotten in Denmark but The Dead. Splash. Slap. Swirl. Toes rest in soft blades of Fescue, Dripping quietly Over the stalks and Soaking, Melting Into brown moist earth.

Night air is alive with celebration. Crickets chirp. Lotus Sing. Stars below dance, Slightly out of focus, while The ones above Stand rigid, Firm, and pointed. Who cares if they rotate around us Or if we rotate around them? Leo? How do we know it’s the Big Dipper and not a Train conductor’s cap? They still Out-shine Fads and Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Will Cindy Crawford or Mel Gibson Be that beautiful in a hundred years? In a million? Billion? Trillion? Agassi, Tiger, Jordan. Slosh. Chirp. Buzz. Humm. Swirl.

My stars dance Against the rocks, Pushing, squirming, swinging. They laugh and giggle. When the crickets no longer chirp, The lotus no longer sing; When enquiring minds don’t care And Nobel and Pulitzer Are awards of a distance past; When the river is dry And the fescue has wilted, The stars above will stare down, Mocking, And say, “I told you so.”

Real Humans By Jeff H. Roper Real humans know they are more than the roles that they play. Yes, we are parents, children, aunts and uncles, employees, sponsors, teachers, and counselors, but we are more than committee chairs, coaches, and the person responsible for all of the extracurricular activities listed on a resume we no longer keep current. Real humans realize they cannot do it alone. Real humans need each other. Real humans need to interact with others--giving and receiving. Sometimes receiving is harder than giving for a real human. Real humans take risks to get to know others. They will initiate conversation. Real humans recognize that they have two ears and just one mouth, so they listen twice as much as they speak. They listen with their ears and their hearts. Real humans have made a deliberate choice to be sincerely and genuinely interested in others. They listen, inquire, and reflect back what the other person has said. Real humans consider the thoughts and feelings of others. They take the time to take the college boy shopping for clothes before his first big real job or is willing to listen and pray with his college daughter over the phone 1600 miles away who has had a bad day and is homesick. Real humans see that detached look in the kid in the back row of the classroom and seeks to put a smile on that kid's face. Real humans put out the morning trash once per week, but then remember to give a last scratch behind the ears of the dog before going to work. Real humans call their parents and share fun moments with them and finds out how they are doing. Real humans put themselves out there in the world. They embrace others with different backgrounds and perspectives other than their own. Real humans treat their neighbors as they want to be treated themselves. And who is their neighbor? Answer: The next person you meet. Real humans can and do change the world every day. So, what's your name? Glad to make your acquaintance. People will remember real moments. People remember real humans. Real humans aren't perfect. They're just real.

Ann: Progressive Neuro-muscular Disease

By Jeff H. Roper

Weighing heavily on my mind. Larger than life. Vivacious smile. Beautiful twenty-two year old girl. Sharp as a tack. Articulate. Outspoken. Maid of honor At my wedding. My wife’s best friend.

Introduced her to my best friend in college. Bill. Instant love. They married six months after us. We each had two children. We gave pendulum Clocks to one another. Time marches on. We moved away.

Last week. Phone call. Hospice care? Ann dying? Phone call to Bill. Progressive neuro-muscular disease. Trip to Kansas City. Sunday visit. She gets out of bed. Twenty minute visit in the living room. Bill serves her hot tea.

She is glad to see us. My wife Vicky gives her a scrapbook. Photos of our college years. Ann laughs. Enjoys the pictures. Ann wants to get caught up on our news. Visit over. A hug. No hug in return. Her body is so weak. “Goodbye Ann. We love you.”

To the car. Vicky cries uncontrollably as we leave. God. Why? Cannot understand. Cannot accept a best friend dying at age 50. I know we all die, but I know I’m not ready, so explain it to me. I do not cry. Men don’t cry usually. I feel a loss. I’m shocked and numb right now. A part of me is dying too. I remember Ann. Her smile. God. Why?

by Linda Jackson (Andrew indent lines 2,3,4,5,7,8.)
 * Topping the Ridge**

Topping the ridge I see laid out before me the impossible azure curve with mares' tails, the rosegold prairie grass oceaning in the wind, the open rolling hills marching higher and higher. Close to home, not in the mind's eye or heart's hope. Racing for home.

Mary Dohl
 * Moving Sighs**

Lunch finished, they sit to rest, An aging couple-you might have guessed.

She-on the couch, he-in his chair, Reading, napping - a peaceful pair.

Then the bell on the dryer dings Calling her to fold some things.

She starts to rise with a slight groan Before recalling she’s not alone.

His lids fly open at her sound of strain, He asks, “What hurts? Are you in pain?”

She looks at him and rolls her eyes He knows by now her moving sighs.

by Linda Jackson (Andrew, indent lines 2,3,and 7,8.) A new beginning green hope sprouting into the sun: Giving forth to Blooms of radiance.
 * Spring**

A fresh start white faith spiraling into the streambeds: Giving forth to Songs of life.

Spring Anew!

by Linda Jackson (Andrew indent lines 2,3,4,6 and 8,9,10,12.)
 * Summer**

Back patio mornings; calm, cool garden, coffee, rolls, comfortable laughter, Before the warm work of the day.

Front porch evenings; shaded wicker swing, evening paper, lightning bugs, conversation humming, After the warm work of the day.

by Linda Jackson (Andrew indent lines 2,4,6,8,10,12.)
 * Fall**

Maple Trees Are beacon fires Flaming Down each street. Gloriously They flutter Slowly away Like party masks, Discarded, To show the spectral spans of Bony branches. Winter, Is very near.

by Linda Jackson (Andrew indent lines 3,6 and 9, 12.)
 * Winter**

Royally dressed in white velvet Head held high with glittering tiara Set upon her brow, The hushed queen walks through The shortened days and lengthened nights Unafraid.

Her necessary retinue Wind, Ice, and Snow, Travel on behind her, Making way for tender buds Where her crystalline feet have Trod.

by Teralyn Cohn
 * Mud Puppy**

Suntanned, tow headed limber youth, Leapfrogging into puddles Scattering doughy droplets, Plowing a fescue wallow Freckles covered by mud mask White boxers dyed gray Toes glued together, Grinning from ear to ear, A child’s jubilant rain dance.

By T. Rose
 * Alone**

Sometimes it’s glaringly obvious that I’m a misfit. Sometimes it’s hidden Or so I think. Do they notice? Will they notice? Fly under the radar… Carefully… Search for clues. …Wait… Should I let them see the me on the inside? I said too much. Fly under the radar… Suuurrre… I remember his words… //“Wherever you are… act like you belong…”// The words forever burned in my mind. Bouncing off the crevices, Rattling like ghost chains. I have to work so hard at protecting myself. Is it worth it? It’s buried deep, yet, always about to surface. You can’t hurt me if I don’t let you. Why do I care? Fly… Fly under the radar…

(ANDREW - PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT THE LAST LINE OF EACH STANZA IS INDENTED 1/2 WAY.) Mary Dohl
 * Gleis 17**

Trains roar into Berlin’s Grunewald Station. Doors slide open as commuters bustle in and out of the cars or sit idly waiting for the trip to their intended destination to resume down the often used tracks.

If you descend the steps from the platform, go through the tunnel, and ascend another set of steps, you’ll be on Gleis 17. Stand at the top of the stairs and you’ll notice trees rooted between a set of abandoned tracks.

These tracks lie unused, preserved as a memorial. Terra cotta-red tiles border the sides of the tracks. Each tile discloses a date, a number of Juden, and their destinations- camps rife with suffering and death.

Many hundreds bound for Theresianstadt, 1251 to Lodz, 963 to Riga, And others in varying numbers bound for Warschau or Auschwitz. Between 1941 and 1945, over 50,000 from Berlin left on Gleis 17, embarked on a journey to torture.

Today it’s raining as we walk along the track absorbing the information on each tile and feeling the wrenching pain of so many innocents facing imprisonment because of their ancestry.

A makeshift altar has been erected beside the track. Fresh, brightly colored flowers stand out against the dark gray ballast rocks. Small stones grace the tiles as a sign of honor and respect in the Jewish tradition.

It’s a quiet place, except for a distant rumble of trains passing through Grunewald station and the steady patter of raindrops on my umbrella. The cries of those Hebrew souls on Gleis 17 are silent now, but not forgotten.

Today, even the skies weep for you.

Christine Davis-Lykins
 * How do you not believe?**

HE is there everywhere driving to class the sereneness of the sky the clouds so touchable the luscious green marking the end of yet another spring your body breathing flexing, being trees outline the horizon knowing when to bloom when to die the turtle walking ever so slowly watching life pass him by music coming from the radio notes, melodies, harmonies all beautiful to relax or to make smile here is life what HE has given How do you not believe?

Christine Davis-Lykins
 * Daddy**

Beard, mustache Kind hazel eyes Tired with time Capable hands That will hold you Or shake with anger When you had done wrong The smell of pipe tobacco “Luigi, come here” He calls with a laugh “Her mother and I” tear filled eyes as he gave me away Christine Davis-Lykins

Christine Davis-Lykins
 * Believe**

I believe In love In hope In children’s smiles

I believe In happiness In unconditional friendship In parents never ending support

I believe In freedom In education In fighting for what is right

I believe In home In forgiveness In never giving up

I believe In God In Jesus In prayer and church on Sunday

I believe In trust In honesty In you

Christine Davis-Lykins
 * I am from**

I am from the plains of Kansas where the wind blows away pollution as easily as past sin

Families love and stand together no matter how dysfunctional where we love the ARE-Kansas River the Keeper of the Plains stands vigil

Harvest trucks and sports cars share the road snow and sun falling leaves and blooming flowers melt together in beauty

Strangers smile and say hello while passing by eye contact shows respect and a hand shake shows trust

I am from the plains of Kansas the middle of the country surrounded by values and love and I am proud

By Kendra Stuever || I lean over, looking into the abyss. My heart leaps. The tendrils of my soul reach, Catching my heart in midair, Jerking it back to the edge. My soul envelopes my heart, Retreats. My mind knows My soul will never allow My heart to leap into love. ||
 * **Love**
 * || My soul shuffles toward the cliff,

By Gerri Hilger
 * Spring Cleaning**

The sun’s rays glimmer through the window this brilliant spring morning, pushing aside the long, gray winter. But, residue of fireplace smoke, kitchen cooking, And everyday life clouds the once sparkling panes. Welcome window cleaning day!

The Son casts His radiant, loving rays warming my life and my soul each day. Smeared with the scum and grime of daily life, I am dulled to the Son shining through. Welcome, prayer time.

Gerri Hilger
 * Generations**

Tiny flying hands grasp my fingers. The baby's little body strains to pull himself to a sitting position. Giggles and squeals declare, "I am soooo wonderful!"

He pushes down hard on the cold steel of his walker, Every muscle straining as his fragile legs seek balance-- attempting to carry his 93 year old frame. "Thank you," he says as I remove my supportive arms from his.

The baby opens his little mouth welcoming Mashed bananas from the miniature spoon I hold. Sometimes blowing bubbles, he tests the new texture of solid nourishment... More puried food covers on his face than will reach his tummy when we finish.

His trembling Parkinson's-plagued hands shake violently as the man attempts to bring the ergonomic spoon to his mouth. "Would you like me to help?" I gently ask as more finely chopped food splatters his face than will reach his stomach.

Seven-thirty---the day still young for most people, but late for this little infant yawning and whimpering for sleep. Changing his diaper, caressing him with lotion, fastening jammie-- After time for rocking, cuddles and coos, I place him into his crib, "Good night, Sweet Jackson."

The old man shuffles to the bathroom, shaking hands remove his teeth. I help remove hearing aids, and change a wet Depends. Barrier cream and foot lotions are lovingly applied to protect sensitive, diabetic skin. Lifting his legs into the bed, arranging pillows for support, I gently cover him. "Good night, Dad. I love you," and I close the curtains to the evening skies changing From happy hues of peachy pink to shades of grey--as night approaches.

(In one recent week, I spent 3 days caring for my father and 3 caring for my infant grandson.)

by Kendra Stuever
 * Homeless**

I stand at the threshold of a different bedroom, Every night somewhere new. I breathe in the air filled with an unfamiliar scent, Every day we move.

My children cling to my legs, tired and sullen, Each moment more difficult. We bathe when we can, not often enough, Each problem, more my fault.

I observe their dirty bodies, piled in a heap My heart fills with shame. No money, no job, no husband, no car, My soul bound by chains.

I slump on the cold wooden floor near the mattress, Tears stream down my face. The baby snores next to me drowning out the sirens, My mind moves in a maze.

In February I completed my twenty-eighth year, But somehow I am still all alone. My entire life I’ve worked hard and long, But somehow we just don’t have a home.

As much trouble as we endure, I still worry Those less fortunate still exist. Family, friends, old colleagues, and strangers all help, Guilt creeps into my stomach’s pit.

I relinquished all I had for someone in need, I lost everything. I should feel blessed for the experience, He is still a fiend.

My children will bounce back, This will be //Memory Lane////.// Me, who knows, I just question, Am I the one to blame?

(ANDREW: PLEASE CENTER VERSE)

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness hasn’t overcome it. John 1:5

Rachael Warren
 * The Dark**

The night my phone rang He’s gone A drive home Sickness Disbelief Finally getting to my parents, and to Cassie. Heartbreak Tears, endless tears. My grandparents out of the country on a cruise. Can’t get home for 3 days. His black car, crumpled. Pain. Returning my bridesmaid dress No wedding, no celebration. My future nieces and nephews Not to be. Just a funeral and sorrow. And a headstone, dark, black granite.

Rachael Warren
 * The Light**

My faith First Presbyterian Church A place to heal Pastor Dick from Iowa, Florida, and Michigan now here. Coming home to my family. Big, fun, comforting. My parents, together are strong. Cassie, lovely Loyal A new job A new start Love surrounds Certainty in the Word A promise I’ll see you again. Someday.

by Becky Frisbie (PLEASE CENTER TITLE AND MY NAME) I feel so close to you yet so far away. Why do you push me away? I want to be your friend, your confidant. I am left confused not knowing what to do. My heart is wide open waiting to see you smile, waiting to see you laugh, waiting for your embrace. You mean so much to me but treat me like I don’t really matter. I can’t take the pain. I can’t feel my heart. I can’t feel you.
 * Let Me In**

I’ve always been there for you but you can’t see me. You’re looking at your own pain. It mesmerizes you, puts you in a trance full of anger and hate. You are blinded to those who really care about you. My heart is wide open waiting to see you smile, waiting to see you laugh, waiting for your embrace. You mean so much to me but treat me like I don’t really matter. I can’t take the pain. I can’t feel my heart. I can’t feel you.

You left me so confused not knowing how to feel. I left my heart wide open only to feel the pain. I just want to cry, scream, yell, leave.

Why can’t I just leave and never look back. My body can go but my mind continues to stay. My thoughts are always present bringing me back to you against my will. I can’t continue to be plagued with sorrow, with things that will never be. You have no feelings but anger, hate, and pain. There is no room in your heart for all the love that is there waiting for you. You can’t keep hiding your pain. You are trapped in your own existence. My heart is wide open waiting to see you smile, waiting to see you laugh, waiting for your embrace. Open your eyes, open your heart, let me in.

By Amy Morrow (PLEASE MAKE FIRST 3 LINES OF EACH STANZA ALIGNED AND INDENT THE FOURTH LINE.)
 * The Morrow Boys**

__Trains Cars Tractors Little boys.

Thinking Running Flipping Little boys.

Star Wars Dragons Pirates Little boys.

Sharks Whales Caterpillars Little boys.

Scientific, mathematician

Me You Both of us Little boys.

Zach Brendan Evan Our little boys.__

by Amy Morrow (PLEASE ALIGN LINES 1,3, 5, 7, 9, AND 11. PLEASE INDENT LINES 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10.)__ Buhler hip, happening small, friendly atmosphere, unique homemade, artistry main street, hometown folks lifetimers, newcomers historical, modern cafes, bistros NASCAR labels, boutiques All of these describers Buhler
 * Buhler**

Come Back
by Becky Frisbie

(PLEASE CENTER ALL LINES, INCLUDING THE TITLE)

The minute you walk away My heart begins to ache Why do you have to leave Can’t you stay forever

Dreams of you are not enough I need you with me to touch, to laugh with, to love Hold me in your arms and never let me go

I can see you in my mind An instant replay of every moment This is not enough to satisfy my heart’s desire I need to feel your touch, catch your gaze

I want to share my life with you To wake every morning and see your face To fall asleep at night within your embrace This is all I need You are all I want

Give me your love, your heart Every day of your life Your are my soul mate I am lost without you

Come back to me Say you never want to leave Say you love me too Say I’m all you need I give you my heart, my life Hold me in your arms and never let me go

The minute you walk away My heart begins to ache Turn around Come back to me Come back before my heart breaks

By Samantha Neill
 * Not in This Case**

Normally it would be funny To watch a kid try to tie his shoes, And fumble around with shoes strings.

Normally it would be funny To watch a kid try to button his pants, Frustrated because the buttonhole is too small.

Normally it would be funny To watch a kid try potato chips for the first time, And not be sure if he liked them or not.

Normally it would be funny To watch a kid fighting on the way to the shower, Lathering him up to rub-a-dub-dub.

Normally it would be funny To watch a kid with a pretend banjo, Being strummed and plucked on his belly.

Normally it would be funny To watch a kid tell stories full of adventures, Not really being sure where they came from.

Not in this case… Not when it is my grandpa who is this kid… Who can no longer tie his shoes, Button his pants, Shower his body, Play the banjo, Tell his stories.

Not in this case… Not when my dad has to become the parent… And help his father tie his shoes, Button his pants, Shower his body, Play the banjo, Remember his stories.

Not in this case... Not when I hope that my dad remains my parent... So I don't have to help him tie his shoes, Button his pants, Shower his body, Play the banjo, Live his stories, Knowing he would never want to live that way.


 * “Thoughts” Marilyn Darnell** (ANDREW, PLEASE CENTER THIS POEM, THANKS!)

Little boxes, Tiny boxes, Stored in closets, Dark and dusty-

Cobweb wrappings, Paper ribbons, Sit on shelf tops, All unopened.

...and the silent spiders watch.


 * “Dad” Marilyn Darnell** (ANDREW, PLEASE CENTER AND ITALICIZE STANZAS 4-6 THANKS!)

Nudged into waking Confusion at three o'clock in the morning Why?

Was it Angels? They must have known. I think I did as well.

Were you waiting? For someone? For me? --to say goodbye to?

Were you afraid? --to be alone? A-lone? Alone.

The last breath An exhalation So precious And So brief.

Was it an ending? Or a beginning? Was it a "Goodbye?" -an "I love you?" -an "It's ok?"

Was it?

by Sandy Foster
 * The Day is Done**

The day is done, the work is o'er; it's time to rest my muscles sore. I walk my trusty steed to camp with the red-orange sunlight as my lamp. Satisfaction fills my soul as another day I've reached my goal. The fence is mended, the cattle worked, a day well-spent, no duty shirked. Now I sit upon my horse and pray to God, who is my source of courage, compassion, and of strength, and who provides for me at length. I thank him for this blessed day and seek forgiveness for when I stray. In awe I watch the sunset's glow and pray that tomorrow the wind won't blow.

By Sandy Foster
 * Jason**

There are no words that I can say to ease the pain you feel today. Your sense of loss cannot be eased nor can thoughts of vengeance be appeased. But there is one thing that I can do and that is to say a prayer for you. May God grant you courage in the months ahead and strength to face tasks you now dread. Nothing prepares us for so violent an end but God will help your hearts to mend. As memories of Jason come flooding back, smiles will replace feelings you now lack. A straight-A student, an all-American kid, Jason was successful in whatever he did. His positive attitude and ever-present smile made others envy his “Mr. Cool” style. Jason’s every goal was within his reach and in tribute to his mentors, he decided to teach, To invest in the future, make a positive mark until someone with a gun shot him in the dark. He made this world a much better place and though these recent events we cannot erase, we know he’s with his God above expecting us to continue showing His love.

(In memory of former student, Jason Befort, one of five people slain by the Carr brothers in December, 2000.)

This poem was written in response to the pictures Becky shared for her writing prompt. By Nancy Sturm
 * Thunder On the Plains** (ANDREW, PLEASE CENTER THIS POEM--THANKS!)

Thunder on the plains Once meant more Than a Storm.

Majestic wooly buffalo Roamed wild, free.

Brave man, hair streaming Horse’s hooves Pounding, Hunting, killing for meat. “I am sorry for taking your spirit.” Meat gives power and strength Wooly hide protects from Frigid prairie Winds.

“Sporting” man Head out of window Clack of wheel on rail. Cold steel quiets Prairie Thunder.

Thunder on the plains Once meant more Than a Storm.

This poem was written in response to Mary's prompt: Alternate physical description with action, then add two quotes. By Nancy Sturm
 * Snapshot (PLEASE CENTER THIS POEM)**

Work-worn, thick-veined hand Lifts the silver spoon. “Open up, take a bite” Crooning, cajoling, pleading. Her mouth opens, bird-like. Teeth bite down On the silver spoon. Sometimes, too, on His gnarled finger.

Love songs flow Soft tenor voice “Try another bite” Teeth tightly clenched Blue-eyed light, blown out. Work-worn, thick-veined hand Lifts the silver spoon.

Poignant portrait of love.

by Becky Frisbie
 * Sunflower**

ANDREW: PLEASE CENTER ALL, INCLUDING PHOTO


 * NOTE: This sunflower image could not be used in our publication - it is a copyrighted image.**

Photo Courtesy of ensign.ftlcomm.com

You are the sun – my light. Without you I am lost. I am not complete. Without you I wilt like a flower with no water. You are my sun – my water. I am in full bloom when you are near. Without you I am nothing.

By Samantha Neill (PLEASE CENTER EVERYTHING)
 * Living**

I was dead for a year, Numb, crying, lost. Happy on the outside. Mad, hurt, angry, Dying on the inside.

I had lost my brother, Lies, betrayal, grief. Too full of pride, Foolish, selfish, hate. Unable to forgive him.

I had lost myself, Defiance, denial, spite. Pain I caused myself, Proud, boastful, stupid. Missing my brother.

I am alive, laughing. I learn lessons. I forgive faults. I accept differences. I embrace family. I cherish life. I need love. I pray, Others find peace Within their hearts To forgive And live life.

by Dennis Perrin Please center
 * This**

This is What I Believe I Am From God Blesses Today

And You Also

From the Breath of God Word Written on my Heart

And You Also

Sacred Gifts Awareness A Spirit Sanctified

And You Also

Called for a Purpose To Relate and Reflect That Which is Good

And You Also

A Great Cloud of Witnesses Gone Before Heritage of Faith Purpose

And You Also

Trials and Tribulations Challenges and Forsakens Wrongdoings and Misdirection Forgiveness and Grace

On the Prairie Over the Mountains Across the Oceans God’s Gifts Abundant

And You Also

Perceptions Consciousness Actions and Reflections This is What I Believe I Am From God Blesses Today

And You Also

by Dennis Perrin Please center Wiki’s Blogs Mules and Psychiatry
 * So Much Writing - So Little Time**

Clay Cameras Hop, Skip and Go Naked

Dreams Dates Dances

Death Life Because Writing Matters

Reader Feedback Rubrics No Child Left Behind

Sunlight in the Classroom Not Orange Carpet Musty Commons Rot

Another Brick In the Wall Buhler

Sacred Writing Time Tall Tales TECHNOLOGY

Come Early Sit By The Candle

Listen 2 Soft Music

Write Touchy Feely Oprah Dr. Phil

So Little Time So Much Writing We Skipped the Text

Main Course Meat and Potatoes Where’s the Horse Whisperer?

by Dennis Perrin Please center
 * Monsters** (from a writing prompt)

My name is Pedro or Jose or Juan I’m the monster from South of the Border I don’t speak your language but I do work jobs your rich people hire me for a small price Less than what they will pay their own people Fences don’t keep me out Hairy, slimy creatures in the river or in desert don’t keep me out or in for that matter in Survival motivates me and my family Economics beckons me I work for THE MAN Some of my people and, for that matter, some of your people think THe MAN is the monster But I am the MONSTER I am poor I am uneducated My Heart longs only for simple things My family My friends Meager shelter A chance to worship Some people think I am dirty That I deal drugs Which comes first the supply or the demand? Some people think my brown skin is not white enough Some people think all my children are a burden I see life in their eyes I see family I see God Is it true You or your ancestors were immigrants Are you a monster also I once heard a Native American tell a story handed down from their ancestors About immigrants to their land White immigrants, Brown Immigrants, yellow immigrants, Black immigrants At times, they were all monsters too Chinese Blacks Indentured Servants Spanish Conquistadores Irish Pilgrims Puritans French Some people think they are Monsters now All of them Monsters Are you a Monster too?

D**aisy Stevens** [Andrew, Please indent the quotations that follow each 5 line stanza and the final 3 lines.] by Meg Rice

Daisy Stevens, My mother’s mother. Privacy piercing, grey eyes, Small, straight backed, long apron. Depression survivor making weekly refrigerator hash.

“Wash your hands first.” “Waste not, want not.”

Master seamstress, Treadle sewing machine. Sewed without a pattern. Twisted, bony fingers, flawless handwork, Dressed my Christmas doll in originals.

“A stitch in time saves nine.”

Devoted disciplinarian, Guardian of grandchildren, Caring for our safety, Much against our adventurous spirits. She taught us right from wrong.

“Go get a peach switch.” "Spare the rod; spoil the child."

Avid reader, Read bedtime stories, Experienced realist; dispensing wisdom. Taught work ethic, frugality, love, Spoke wise sayings for every situation.

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” “Don’t just clean that with a lick and a promise.”

Gone now, Died too young. We recall Daisy stories! Did not appreciate her then. Thought she spoiled our farmyard adventures.

Upon turning on a light, she always proclaimed, “Daylight in the swamps!” May I meet her in the Light one day, to thank her face to face.

by Meg Rice
 * Linda** [Andrew, please left allign this poem just as it is now. Thank you.]

Linda My cousin, Musical, gentle spirit, Listened with her soul, Taught me, laughter sustains us. Will be missed immensely, Creative, artistic energy, Deeply spiritual, Lindy

by Meg Rice
 * His Eyes**

Wolf blue, His blue eyes seem to see into me, Wherein I feel dangerously close to fear. Don’t come near!

Blue, wolf eyes like his blue eyes, They watch me and catch me, Amidst furtive glances. I take subtle chances.

Look; Take stock. No…… We’ll never talk.

He stands and walks. He smiles, then talks, Talks to me. Aw……gee! Now, I must reply and meet his eyes, His blue eyes, his wolf eyes.

Together on library evenings, Studying? Hardly! He and I talking, out late, Seems like a date.

Strolling under stars; riding in his car. The wolf pursues the hen, and I understand then. No love was there, only pretend. My shattered heart now needs to mend.

Those blue eyes, Those wolf eyes; Invite and engage, Rendezvous then betray.

The hunt will soon end. He has not proved a friend. His blue eyes, his sweet lies, I became wise.

Never again to trust Light blue eyes, Clearly wolf eyes, His cruel eyes.